


Because the Night

by Garonne



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3500126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Because the night belongs to lovers,</i><br/>Because the night belongs to us </p><p>Established relationship. Bodie and Doyle are called away from a CI5 party to a dangerous op.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because the Night

Doyle looked down into Bodie's sweat-streaked face, into Bodie's eyes.

"You're mine tonight," he said fiercely. "Mine until tomorrow morning."

Bodie seemed to understand. He didn't speak, just pulled Doyle's head down, a firm hand on the back of Doyle's neck, until they were kissing again, cocooned in a world of their own in Bodie's bedroom.

.. .. ..

"Beer, Ray?"

Doyle took the bottle Wilson was holding out to him.

"Thanks, mate."

He snagged a bottle opener and flipped the cap off his beer, before wriggling his way through the crowd and back out of the kitchen again.

Half of CI5 seemed to be packed into Wilson's new sitting room. A steady buzz of talk and laughter filled the room, and a fug of cigarette smoke was making a good start on the inevitable aging process of Wilson's new wallpaper. Wilson himself was on the B-squad, and married, with a toothy, pig-tailed four-year-old and a now brand new house -- hence the house-warming party.

Doyle soon spotted Bodie in the crowd. He was on the far side of the room, clowning it up in the middle of a group of people. Hanging on his arm and laughing fit to burst was a brunette Doyle had never seen before.

Doyle himself was here with Suzie Hamilton from the computer operations room. They'd been seeing each other on an irregular basis for a couple of months now. The arrangement had the advantage that she understood the concept of being permanently on call, and the disadvantage that he'd still have to see her from time to time, after it had inevitably broken down.

Just now, Suzie seemed to be deep in conversation with Murphy's girlfriend, and Doyle didn't interrupt her. Instead, he squeezed his way into a conversation between Jax, Anson and one of the R/T operators.

"This the village gossip corner, then, is it?" he said, as soon as he'd figured out they were speculating about whether Morris was really seeing someone at the Serious Fraud Office. The doubt was understandable because this was Anthony Morris they were talking about, who'd been in CI5 for four years without ever seeming to look at a girl twice. "Haven't you lot got anything better to do than gossip?"

"Don't come the moral high ground on us, Doyle," Jax said. "I heard you quizzing Betty about it yesterday."

"Purely for financial reasons -- protecting my investment portfolio. I've got fifty pee on Morris." He paused. "Course, I also wanted to get the jump on you lot when it comes to buying wedding presents. John Lewis'll be all out of photo frames."

That got him three shocked stares.

"What, already?"

Doyle made a zipping motion across his lips.

"Just said I don't gossip, didn't I?" he told them loftily.

"McCabe is offering pretty long odds on a wedding," Anson said thoughtfully.

Jax snorted in disbelief.

"Wedding my arse. Up till a month ago I thought Morris was one of life's bachelors. I won't believe he's even having it off until I see proof."

"In the form of a bouncing baby?"

That got a laugh out of the rest of them, but Jax remained unperturbed.

"If necessary," he said calmly.

That lead them on to the topic of what constituted proof in the bookies' sense. Anson still had bitter memories of the winter of 1968, when he'd bet a fiver on a white Christmas in Manchester, woken up to a good covering of snow, and yet not got a penny, because there might have been snow that day but there was no snowfall. This lead to a complicated story about a motorcycle trip Jax had taken in the snow once, in the Highlands, in a near blizzard according to him.

Doyle was distracted by a sudden loud burst of laughter behind him, and turned his head. The laughter was centred around Bodie, who was wearing his widest smirk, and looking pleased as punch with himself.

Doyle was hit by an unexpected flash of desire, a sudden need to get Bodie into bed and keep him there all night. It had been almost a week since the last time they had so much as been alone together at home, what with one thing and another.

He turned away resolutely, just in time to catch Jax saying, "You'll back me up, won't you, Ray?"

"What about, mate?"

"You're a man who knows his gaskets from his grommets."

Doyle allowed himself to be drawn back into the conversation.

Later in the evening, he was sitting alone on the sofa with his third beer, Lewis having abandoned him a few minutes earlier for the loo. The crowd parted suddenly and dumped Bodie on the sofa beside him.

"Alright, Doyle?"

Doyle ducked the hand that reached out to ruffle his curls.

"Nice place Wilson has here, eh?" Bodie went on. "Shame about the riffraff he's filled it with."

"That better not be me you're talking about," Doyle said severely.

Bodie grinned at him.

"I decline to comment."

"You could show a bit more gratitude, you know. It was me who got us off the duty roster tonight, remember?"

"True," said Bodie. "Very true. Well done, mate," he added, mock-heartily, and gave Doyle a smack on the shoulder that turned into a caress, a very brief one, before he let his hand fall away.

Doyle started working out when next he could get Bodie at home alone. He needed it, and he could tell Bodie did too. They never talked about it, but he always thought of those moments at home as their own private haven, somewhere to retreat to, where the world couldn't touch them.

Someone had started up Wilson's stereo system, and a few brave, or drunk, souls had started dancing in the space between the table and the wall. Doyle had a sudden flash of memory -- standing in his living room with Bodie, arms wrapped around each other, swaying to the sound of slow songs on the radio.

He met Bodie's eyes, and knew Bodie was thinking about the same thing he was. Bodie's expression had a rare, fleeting softness to it.

Gawking at each other too long, Doyle thought. Dangerous.

He drained his beer and got to his feet in one brisk movement.

"Get you another?" he said, holding up his own empty bottle.

Bodie grinned at him.

"Don't mind if you do."

Doyle had hardly made it halfway across the room, though, when he saw Wilson's wife signalling to him from the doorway.

"Phone call for you and Bodie," she said as soon as he was near enough to hear, and the apologetic look on her face made it clear she knew exactly what that meant.

"Thanks, love," Doyle said, stepping past her into the hallway. "Get Bodie too for me, will you?"

And so ten minutes later they were in Bodie's car, with a thermos flask of coffee courtesy of the Wilsons, and an address in Croydon scribbled on a sheet of paper.

"It's near the railway station," Bodie reported, bent over the A-Z.

"East or West?"

"Both. Sort of in between them." He looked up at the sound of the indicator. "Not that way, you moron. Take the by-pass."

Doyle didn't argue, just flicked off the indicator and kept driving. Bodie was the worst passenger in the world, which was why Doyle usually let him drive.

"I'm starving," he said after a couple of minutes.

"Didn't get any of the little pastry thingies, did you?" Bodie said, sounding smug.

Doyle ignored this. He knew Bodie'd be just as hungry as he was in an hour or two.

They drove on in silence. After a while, he felt Bodie's hand on his knee.

"This is turning out to be a lousy evening."

"Yeah." He took his eyes off the road for a second to glance at Bodie. "You doing anything tomorrow night?"

"No."

"Stay with me?"

Bodie made a grumbling noise.

"Wish it was tonight."

"Yeah."

Bodie squeezed his knee, gave it a little pat and then let go. They were approaching their destination, and he picked up the R/T to check in with Control.

"ETA ten minutes," he said. "Any updates on what this is all about?"

"Yes. I'm putting you through to 5.9 and 2.7 now."

Doyle raised an eyebrow at Bodie, who shook his head. Looked like he didn't know what case McCabe and Lucas were on just now either. Last Doyle had heard, they were on routine surveillance out in Walthamstow somewhere.

McCabe came on the air.

"5.9 here."

"What's this all about?"

"We've found Target Seven."

Doyle saw Bodie frowning in confusion, and said, "Jawal the gun-runner," mouthing it so it wouldn't go out over the R/T.

Bodie whistled.

Rumours had been circulating for the last few months that he'd done a runner during the trade fair for which he'd been sent to Britain, and was now hiding out in London somewhere. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of him, though, despite half the British intelligence services looking for him, and certainly his own former comrades too.

"Before his own lot found him?" Bodie said into the R/T.

"Looks like it. He's holed up at the address you've got. We've already made contact with him by telephone. He wants to come in."

Bodie and Doyle exchanged glance. Bodie had his lips pursed in another whistle.

"We're bringing him in tonight," McCabe finished. "Just waiting for you two lazy sods to get here."

"What do you want us to do?"

"Just sit out in the street and don't do anything stupid."

"Yeah, yeah, all right."

Before Bodie could sign out, Doyle said, "Hang on a minute," and leant sideways to speak into the R/T too. "What happened to your scheduled backup?" 

He was still hungry, and still not feeling too happy about having been dragged away from the party. 

"Dodgy shrimp, or so they claim."

Bodie grimaced in sympathy.

"All right. 3.7 out." 

Their destination turned out to be a long, quiet street, half residential, half commercial, and now dark and deserted. It was almost midnight, and most of the shops were closed, except a chip shop and a 24-hour launderette. Most of the lights were off in the flats above the shops too, and the only sign of life was a man sitting on a wall by the bus stop, waiting for the last bus.

They called McCabe to tell him they were in place. A few minutes later, they saw Lucas crossing the street, a swift silent figure in the dark. He climbed the front steps of the house, and let himself him. McCabe, meanwhile, must be going in the back way.

Bodie and Doyle settled down to wait.

The bus went past. A few seconds later a man came running out of the launderette carrying a bag stuffed full of clothes. He stopped short, his shoulders slumping as he watched the bus speed away.

"Poor bugger," Bodie said, and Doyle grunted in agreement.

The man disappeared round the corner on foot, and for the next ten minutes, the street was deserted.

Doyle hefted the thermos flask.

"I reckon there's one cup left in here."

"You can have it."

Doyle shot him a suspicious glance.

"You sure?"

Bodie gave him a wink and a suggestive smirk.

"You can make it up to me later."

Doyle shook his head in mock-dismay.

"Hope you don't ever leer at your girls like that -- frighten 'em off."

The R/T buzzed before he could even get the top off the flask. It was McCabe.

"Is there a tan Ford Cortina parked out on the street?"

They both leant forward to peer out through the windscreen into the dark.

"Yeah, it's on the far side, outside the chippy."

"It's Target Seven's. Says he's got his bag stowed away in the boot in case of 'emergencies'. Won't leave without it."

"Want one of us to bring it up to you?"

"Nah, 'salright, I'm already halfway there."

Sure enough, McCabe appeared at the front door a few seconds later, looked quickly round, and then ran down the steps and across the street.

Doyle watched him with one eye, his attention not so much on McCabe as on the chip shop the car was parked next to, and the state of his own stomach. McCabe put the key in the car door and turned it, and that was when the car exploded, with a roar and a sudden burst of flame. Doyle's heart sprang into action.

"I'll go first," said Bodie, already halfway out of the car.

Doyle stayed in the car just long enough to radio it in, before he was out and racing across the street after Bodie. When he got to the scene of the explosion, Bodie had dragged McCabe away from the flames, and was crouched over him.

"He's alright," he said hoarsely, without looking round.

Doyle took a quick look up and down the street, discounted the likelihood of immediate trouble, and then squatted down beside them. McCabe had what looked like second degree burns on his face and hands, but his eyes were open, and he was even struggling to sit up.

Doyle shook his head in amazement.

"God, the jammy bastard."

He sat back on his heels, his heart still hammering from the moment when he'd been quite sure McCabe was a goner. He took a deep breath, and then got to his feet, looking up and down the street for more trouble, his hand inside his jacket on the butt of his gun. Two people had appeared in the chip shop doorway, which put them even closer to the flames then the CI5 men. Doyle waved them back in with a scowl and an angry yell.

"Think he hit his head when he got blown back, though," Bodie was saying.

"Yes, I hit my head," McCabe snapped, sounding irritated but also sounding like he was about to pass out again at any moment. His voice was hoarse, too -- he must have got a mouthful of smoke and petrol fumes.

"Keep your gob shut, you idiot," Bodie snapped, made harsh by relief. He looked up at Doyle. "Jawal's car rigged -- they know where Jawal is then."

"Or else it's a set-up, and Jawal is in on it."

They exchanged frowns, and turned to McCabe.

He shrugged.

"I thought he was genuine. Still do."

"Alright," Bodie said. "Come on, then."

They got McCabe to his feet and helped him back to the car, where Lucas was going crazy on the R/T.

"Mac! What the hell is going on out there? Mac!"

Doyle picked it up.

"He's okay. More or less."

In the back seat, Bodie was getting McCabe settled.

"Better get Jawal out before the locals and the ambulances get here," he said, and Doyle nodded.

"2.7?" he said into the R/T.

"Yeah?"

"Still with His Nibs?"

"Yeah." 

"Okay, we're coming in."

They looked questioningly at McCabe.

"Dark green Vauxhall Viva parked in the back alley, directly behind the house. Lucas and our little friend are in the upstairs front room."

"Front or back?" Bodie said to Doyle.

Doyle chose the back. In the dark alley behind the house, he spotted the Vauxhall that was Lucas and McCabe's getaway car. As soon as he was in the back garden, he drew his gun, and advanced stealthily on the house. The kitchen door was easily forced. The kitchen itself was empty, as were the pantry and the rest of the downstairs rooms.

By the time he reached the front hall, Bodie was already upstairs on the landing.

"All clear out back," Doyle called softly, coming partway up the stairs.

"Up here too." He turned towards a door at the end of the landing, raising his voice slightly. "Let's go, 2.7."

The door opened, and that was when the second bomb went off.

Doyle was blown backwards, down several steps, bumping along the banisters as he fell. He ended up in a crumpled heap on the half-landing, too stunned to move.

For a long, long time, silence reigned in the house, except for the steady whisper of dust and plaster trickling down.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Doyle gathered his wits enough to open his eyes. Reality came rushing back in, along with the knowledge of where he was and who with. He managed to turn and lift his head, so that he could see up onto the landing. The place where Bodie had been standing had completely disappeared under a five-foot pile of plasterboard and ceiling joists. Doyle's stomach twisted in fear.

Bodie, he tried to yell. Bodie! But his mouth was full of dust, and his words turned into a feeble cough.

He didn't know whether he'd been out for hours or for a matter of seconds. He took a deep breath, and tried to think past Bodie, get his head on straight and his mind on the job. Jawal was the priority here, and Lucas was still somewhere up there too.

Well, at least now we know Jawal's not in on it, he though grimly.

His insides were a painful, gaping hole, the image of Bodie under piles of debris engraved on his mind's eye. He forced himself to his feet, and started up the stairs, calling now for Bodie and for Lucas, and searching for the R/T he seemed to have lost.

That was when he realised that the noises he could hear weren't just the pounding of his aching head, nor debris falling. He could hear footsteps in the hallway, and now footsteps and voices on the stairs.

He spun round, reaching belatedly for the gun that wasn't there because he'd dropped it in the explosion. He felt his head spin, and ended up toppling down the stairs again and being caught by a burly man in a fireman's uniform.

That was quick, he thought woozily. It took him a couple of seconds to realise they'd already been on the way because of the burning car.

He soon found himself out on the street, wrapped in a shock blanket. There was a commotion among the paramedics around him, and then Bodie appeared.

Doyle felt something tight and twisted relax inside of him. He could see the relief in Bodie's eyes, matching his own.

Bodie seemed almost unscathed. His hair and shoulders were white with plaster dust, blood trickling down his cheek from a cut on his head, but he was on his feet. He didn't say anything, of course. Wouldn't do to make a scene. Instead he gave Doyle a tiny nod, and then turned away, back to work.

For Doyle, the next ten minutes were a confused whirl of ambulances, paramedics and getting poked and pried at. Bodie was sometimes nearby and sometimes out of sight, but always out of reach. It was good, of course, to see Bodie waving his CI5 ID around, getting things under control until backup arrived. That was what the rational part of Doyle's mind told him. The rest of him just needed desperately to touch Bodie, to have him close.

Doyle ended up in the same ambulance as Lucas, who had a sprained wrist and a concussion. He learnt from Lucas that Jawal was still in the land of the living too, and under armed guard in another ambulance.

At the hospital, they'd hardly finished getting patched up before Cowley dropped in to berate them for drawing so much attention to themselves.

 _It was supposed to be discreet. No one was supposed to know we had Jawal._ That was the jist of his lecture. They knew it as well as he did, but they also knew the rollicking was their due, even if the bombs certainly weren't their fault.

"Where's Jawal now?" Doyle dared to ask.

"Oh, we've still got him. Much good that will do us now." He looked around. "Where's Bodie got to?"

"Came in a different ambulance," Doyle said, casually, as if he hadn't spent ten long minutes this evening thinking Bodie might be dead.

Cowley left, after obliquely admitting that they'd done their best, in the circumstances, and that he wasn't displeased they were all still alive and intact. Bodie appeared soon after that. He'd lost most of the plaster dust, but he looked pasty and drawn.

"They say I can't drive," he said mournfully.

"We haven't got a car anyway, you pillock," Doyle snapped, made angry by the frustration, the need to wrap himself around Bodie, and hang on for dear life. He wanted desperately to be somewhere away from the rest of the world.

"Tyler's picking us up," Lucas chimed in. "Should be here in twenty minutes or so."

Bodie sat down on one of the nasty plastic chairs.

"Where's McCabe?"

"They're keeping him overnight. Say he'll be fine, though. Second degree burns only."

"You already been to see him?"

"He's sedated."

Doyle couldn't help his quick glance at Bodie. It was bloody selfish of him, but he was glad it wasn't Bodie lying sedated in a hospital bed. Besides, he knew Lucas and McCabe were close, but Lucas had his girl to go home to tonight.

"They letting you two out as well, then?" Bodie asked.

A nurse appeared just then, obviously wondering where Bodie had wandered off to. After a bit of bother getting the paperwork sorted out, they could finally leave.

Tyler dropped Lucas off first.

"Who's next?"

"Bodie's staying at my place," Doyle said firmly. "Doctor's orders."

He was out of the car almost as soon as it pulled up in his street, dragging Bodie with him.

"You're welcome," Tyler yelled after them, pointedly.

Doyle's flat was up three flights of stairs. Doyle could feel every step in the aching muscles of his legs. Once inside, he collapsed instantly on the sofa, dragging Bodie down with him.

For a few minutes they just lay there, finally allowing hours of tension to drain away. Doyle let his head fall onto Bodie's shoulder, and felt Bodie work his arm in between the sofa and Doyle's back, and pull him closer.

Doyle closed his eyes, and breathed in Bodie's smell: leather jacket, sweat and exhaustion. Bodie was holding on to him so tight he was making Doyle's arm numb, but Doyle didn't care. He'd been waiting hours for this.

"Ray," Bodie whispered finally.

"Hmm?"

Doyle raised his head, and then they were kissing, a greedy, desperate, insatiable kiss.

Doyle slid his hand up between them so that he could tug down the zip of Bodie's jacket and then slip his hand inside, soaking up the warmth of Bodie's skin through his thin shirt.

"Wanted this all night," Bodie murmured.

Doyle pulled back so he could start on the buttons of Bodie's shirt.

"Needed this," he said in correction. "Christ, I needed this."

They undressed slowly, carefully, punch-drunk with exhaustion but needing to savour every moment. Then Bodie slid off the couch onto his knees, to suck and stroke Doyle until he came in a haze of pleasure and relief and bone-dead tiredness.

It was a minute or two before he could gather his wits and lift his head, to see Bodie looking up at him, his eyes bright, his lips parted.

"Com'ere, you," Doyle said, and Bodie came up onto the sofa willingly, eagerly, letting Doyle tug him into place.

Later, at long last, they ended up in bed, curled together as closely as possible, holding on tight.

.. .. ..

**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration from Patti Smith's "Because the Night".


End file.
